


What Dreams May Come

by CanisMajor1234



Series: Kicking Writer's Block [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, M/M, Mild Gore, One Word Prompts, Period-Typical Homophobia, but a good way to kick writer's block, tbh, this was a little painful to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 19:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12754878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisMajor1234/pseuds/CanisMajor1234
Summary: This isn’t the first close call Aiden’s ever had. It’s not even the first close call Aiden’s had under Lambert’s watch. Swallow mends the skin into gnarled scars, and they’ve both more than their share of such marks, stretching over their softer places. Testament to their survival. Their survivability. Aiden, the Cat with Nine Lives. Lambert, the Grizzled Wolf who’s earned his every scar.





	What Dreams May Come

Lambert kisses Aiden, and it tastes like iron, blood in the back of the throat. In the back of  _ Aiden’s _ throat. And while his fingers clutch Aiden’s rended armor, white-knuckled and too terrified to let go, Aiden’s hands weave in Lambert’s hair. Tugging. Until Lambert growls into the heat of Aiden’s mouth. 

This isn’t the first close call Aiden’s ever had. It’s not even the first close call Aiden’s had under Lambert’s watch. Swallow mends the skin into gnarled scars, and they’ve both more than their share of such marks, stretching over their softer places. Testament to their survival. Their survivability. Aiden, the Cat with Nine Lives. Lambert, the Grizzled Wolf who’s earned his every scar.

But it’s here, in some half-forgotten ravine, having killed a troll in a fit of desperation as Aiden bled onto the stone, that Lambert panics. There is little need to, at this point: Aiden is whole again, if not hale, skin beneath the torn armor and tunic mended already when Aiden guides Lambert’s shaking hand over it. There’s blood, still warm, slick, but no more bleeding. Still, Lambert can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. Pushes his nose into Aiden’s collarbone, trying to take comfort in the way Aiden. Lets him. Encourages him, almost. Though Lambert has no doubt he will be teased about it later. 

Aiden doesn’t chide him for overreacting, thank Melitele. Lambert is well aware that he is overreacting. But the sound of metal and flesh giving beneath claws, of Aiden’s pained gasp from half-empty lungs, echoes still in Lambert’s ears, and his mind is taking far too long to process the warmth beneath his hands. 

“Lambert…” Aiden, murmurs, mutters, hisses, and Lambert knows. They’re in the open here. They need to move- to cover, at least, but better out of this blasted death-trap of a ravine before all the blood starts drawing curious monsters. And even though it still feels like the ground is giving way, Lambert manages to get his feet under him. Picks up his sword. Lets Aiden lead the way. They follow the stream, all slick rock and mud. It takes more concentration than it should, for Lambert to keep his head clear enough so that stray thoughts don’t distract him, sending him onto his ass in ice-cold snowmelt. It helps him not to dwell, at least for now, though there is still a small, prodding part of him that urges him to glance at Aiden- Aiden, not limping in any way or moving any slower than usual, but maybe a bit stiff and still very much covered in his own blood. 

There’s a small cave about halfway up the ravine, little more than an overhanging ledge and a conveniently-placed boulder. It’s not the kind of place a monster or wild animal might use as a shelter. Too exposed. But Aiden’s already shrugging off his pack, fingers starting on the blood-swollen buckles of his rended armor, and Lambert supposes it will do for now. There isn’t enough dry wood for a fire, not right now, but Lambert can pile some in the back of the cavern for the morning, maybe. And their rations aren’t soaked. Or, at least, Lambert’s aren’t. He leaves them on top of his pack and moves to help Aiden. Despite the panic still beneath his skin, Lambert’s hands are still steadier than Aiden’s. His hands are always steadier than Aiden’s. 

This isn’t the first close call they’ve had. It won’t be the last. Still, Lambert can’t help but want to be close to Aiden right now, in Aiden’s space, because he is. Scared. It’s a feeling he’s uncomfortably used to, even though it’s been a long time since he’s let himself feel it. Fear kills a Witcher just as fast as any monster could. But now. Now Lambert is scared. Now Lambert is letting himself be scared, even as he presses a hand against Aiden’s bare chest, scarred skin and body-warmed silver beneath his palm. 

It’s not something they dare wear in the open. It would draw too much attention, two freaks travelling together, two  _ men  _ travelling together. Instead, Lambert wears his in a soft silk pouch to keep it from clinking against the silver chain, nestled over his heart, its soft weight a constant reminder. Aiden doesn’t bother with the same precaution- only monsters or Witchers would hear the soft slither of silver sliding against silver, Aiden would say, grim laughter in the lines of his eyes. Lambert’s grown so familiar with the sound that he’s almost sure he’s be able to pick it out in Novigrad’s busiest market. 

There’s no person of the cloth they can trust, not with this. There’s no god or goddess or deity who would smile upon them- because they are mutants. Because they are men. But Lambert. Loves. As terrifying as the feeling is. And he’s already spent his whole life spitting at what the common folk approve of, after all. This, though. This might be the first thing that Lambert doesn’t do out of spite. 

Aiden feels the same. Lambert knows. It’s in the way Aiden presses his face into the crook of Lambert’s neck, the way he urges them together, body to body, skin to skin. Not out of lust, or to ward off the chill that whips through the tiny cave. Just. To be close. Close enough to feel a heartbeat against his own. Strong. Off-beat. There’s how Lambert’s always been. But that doesn’t matter, because they’re here, together. The rest can wait.

At least, until the moment passes. Lambert wishes, for that fragile moment, that they could stay like this forever. It’s a concept they’ve tossed about together, Lambert and Aiden. Midnight and hushed whispers, chest to chest in a too-small bed. Pre-dawn and a fire half-out kept alight by Igni. Worlds where they didn’t have to hide anymore. Where they could kiss in the daylight, without the taste of blood in the back of their throats, or fear pricking the backs of their necks. Where their time together isn’t a week with months between. Worlds where they aren’t Witchers, aren’t terrified that someday they’ll go their separate ways and never see each other again. Where they aren’t afraid of watching each other die. 

Pipe-dreams. Lambert presses his nose into Aiden’s hair, dirt and oil and sweat and, beneath it all, the blood and the steel, there’s something. Sweet. Honeycomb in the summer air. Bitter, too. Something that Lambert should hate. Mutations make Witchers more monsters than men, and different mutagens are supposed to set off the more. Sensitive. Of the Witchers. Vesemir and Lambert, in Lambert’s memory, though Geralt too has passing moments. But Aiden has never been anything than safety, even when Lambert bared his teeth and fought against the feeling. And in a way, he should have known all along, that someday.

Someday they’de be here. Far enough from any village that they don’t bother to roll out separate bedrolls. They curl together in the back of the cave, back to chest, swords always close. They will alternate watches, but Lambert won’t move from Aiden’s back, and Aiden won’t move from beneath Lambert, unless there is something to force them apart. 

There is. Always. Something to force them apart, eventually, Lambert thinks, running his fingers through Aiden’s hair. Thick and dark. Gritty. Long. It’ll be a pain in the ass to clean in the morning, in snowmelt and harsh-smelling soap, rended shirt rubbed in salt and weighed beneath the water because it might be torn but it might still be mended. Lambert doesn’t think he owns a single shirt that hasn’t undergone the same treatment. No use spending coin replacing something that’s still useful. The armor will need to be repaired when they get back to the village, though. Neither of them really has the coin to spare right now, won’t even after they get paid for this job. But the blacksmith seemed like a nice enough man, a father of too many little ones without a wife at his side. Besides, Aiden is more than adept at talking down a price. 

Aiden stirs against Lambert’s chest, hand reaching back to scratch at the fine hairs at the nape of Lambert’s neck. Lambert sleeps, for once, without dreams. 


End file.
